


Toothache

by PericulaLudus



Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [20]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: BAMF Constance Bonacieux, Banter, D'Artagnan POV, Dentistry, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Fun, Gen, Hurt d'Artagnan, Medic Aramis, Medical Examination, Pain, Protective Athos, Protective Musketeers, Toothache, Worried Musketeers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27285622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: “Toothache?” She approached, hand outstretched, and he tried to keep out of her reach without looking like a coward.He nodded, very slowly and gently. That was probably what it was though it didn’t sound anywhere near bad enough for what it felt like.“Let me see.” She didn’t ask a question. She told him. She was better at orders than Tréville. No way to refuse, really, so he opened his mouth. Which hurt. And she grabbed his chin and pulled it down further. Which hurt more. It must have shown on his face.“Oh, pull yourself together,” she said. “You’re hardly dying.”
Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1078923
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	Toothache

The bells chimed midnight. Twelve loud bongs that echoed in d’Artagnan’s head.

He heaved his body around to his left side and tried to get comfortable. Shuffled his hips on the lumpy mattress, then sighed and lifted his head to pummel the pillow into submission before burrowing his face in it. He shifted his jaw experimentally. That was better.

But lying on his left side felt odd. He never slept on his left. No matter how often he shifted and shimmied, he couldn’t get comfortable. His shoulders didn’t fit right like that. It felt completely wrong.

And it wasn’t any better. His right cheek still throbbed. Maybe if he yawned that would relieve the pressure.

No.

Heavens, no. Oh sweet Lord Jesus, that was definitely not better.

One o’clock.

The sort of time he only wanted to see when he was out in a tavern or on duty. Not when he was all alone in his bed, trying to sleep. People who did an honest day’s work didn’t lie awake at night. That’s what his father always said. And he knew what he was on about. Work the fields all day and you were asleep as soon as your head hit the pillow. The way it ought to be. Not like this.

He stuck a foot out from underneath his blanket. It was getting pretty stuffy in his room. He could open the window, but he’d just found a somewhat comfortable position and getting up was definitely not a good idea.

But it was warm inside. He shoved his leg out further. He never usually had to bother with that sort of thing in the night. Lie down, fall asleep, hear the neighbour’s cockerel, get up. Simple as that. Sleeping shouldn’t be such a production.

He sneezed.

Winced as pain shot through his cheek, up all the way to his hair and down well into his neck.

Ouch. That was… Oh no, not again…

He reeled his leg back in and grimaced.

Bad idea. That hurt, too.

Two o’clock.

If he wasn’t going to sleep soon, he might as well give up and get up. Wasn’t much of the night left now. That would be a real pleasure in the morning. Guard duty at the palace when he hadn’t slept at all. He’d be snoring before noon. Oh, misery…

He probed at his cheek with his tongue. Man… that was… that didn’t feel good at all. His tongue jerked back when it snagged on something sharp. Bone? Had he shattered his jaw? There hadn’t been an accident in training and they hadn’t been attacked, but it sure felt like it… Or maybe his tooth had split. Breaking open like an egg… Maybe his whole head would break open, explode like one of the melons Porthos and Aramis liked to shoot… Constance would come into his room in the morning and his head would be gone. All the pain would be gone. And that odd sharp thing he felt with his tongue. All of it gone, just his brains running down the walls like raspberry jam…

Raspberry jam? How had he come up with that? He’d been thinking about melons not raspberries… and Constance… Constance would…

The rooster crowed and d’Artagnan buried his head in his pillow. He had just fallen asleep. He pressed the fabric against his ears.

He shot upright.

That hurt. He probed his cheek gingerly with his fingertips. Judging by the pain, he’d been shot. But unless the bullet had gone straight into his ear—and judging by that infernal crowing it hadn’t—there wasn’t an entry wound to be found.

He groaned wretchedly and kneaded his forehead with his knuckles. Why him? What had he ever done to anyone to deserve this?

Downstairs in the kitchen, he grabbed a piece of bread and some cheese. Maybe food would make him feel better. Couldn’t make him feel any worse.

It could, as it turned out. He had to bite his tongue to keep from yowling in pain like a dog. Felt like he’d bitten into the plate, not the bread.

“That’s rock-hard.” He dragged the tooth-marked piece from his mouth. “You could knock someone out with that!”

Constance had her sleeves rolled up to her elbows and was scrubbing clothes in hot water. She looked over her shoulder, face flushed from the steam.

“It’s the same bread you ate yesterday.”

“Yesterday’s bread…” D’Artagnan glared at it.

“Well, I’m not baking fresh loaves every day. This is perfectly fine.” She turned back to her washing, leaving him to pick at the bread.

He nibbled on the cheese, which was definitely better, at least as long as he chewed it only on the left side of his mouth. Maybe if he… He groaned again and abandoned his attempt at the bread.

Constance snorted. “Maybe if my lodger paid a little more regularly, we’d be buying bread as white and soft as clouds, but for the time being this house isn’t the palace kitchen, so you eat what I make or you leave it.”

D’Artagnan decided to leave it. He suckled on some cheese and picked the bread apart into tiny pieces. There was no reasoning with Constance when she was in that sort of mood and he didn’t feel up for a shouting match. She clearly didn’t realise that she had only barely avoided having to find him with his head all blown to pieces…

He cradled his face in his hand and sighed. Maybe if he held his hand against the warm mug of milk and then against his cheek… Aramis always said that warmth was good for pain.

“What are you poking at?” Constance wiped her dripping hands on a towel.

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “Nothing.”

“It’s clearly something or you wouldn’t be in such a miserable mood.”

“I’m not.” If he moved his jaw as little as possible, speaking didn’t even hurt that much. Small blessings.

“Then why are you talking like you’re hatching chickens in your mouth?”

“Hurts,” he mumbled, still without moving his jaw.

“Toothache?” She approached, hand outstretched, and he tried to keep out of her reach without looking like a coward.

He nodded, very slowly and gently. That was probably what it was though it didn’t sound anywhere near bad enough for what it felt like.

“Let me see.” She didn’t ask a question. She told him. She was better at orders than Tréville. No way to refuse, really, so he opened his mouth. Which hurt. And she grabbed his chin and pulled it down further. Which hurt more. It must have shown on his face.

“Oh, pull yourself together,” she said. “You’re hardly dying.”

He tried to look indignant, but that was difficult since she was now peering into his mouth.

“Don’t touch it.” Well, he tried to say that, but what came out sounded more like “Oh ah eh.”

She didn’t, but she did pull the corner of his mouth back, which made the whole procedure even more awkward. Pure romance, honestly…

“That looks really red,” she said. “You should probably go see the barber surgeon.”

He pulled back, dislodging her fingers and clapping his own hand over his cheek. “No way.”

He knew what those butchers did. They’d pull out all his teeth while some brute held him down and then he’d be gummy and toothless like some old witch. Not a chance.

“Well, you’re in pain, so it’s best to get it taken care of.” Ordering him around like Tréville and now being as reasonable as Athos. There really was no winning with her.

“I’ll be fine.” He tried his very best to look more confident than he felt, shrugged on his jacket and put his belt around his hips. Best get out from under her feet. No sympathy to be had with her.

“Wait up.” She grabbed a basket. “I have some fabric to show Tréville.”

Fantastic, so no respite. He’d have to man up and stand tall and probably even make smalltalk on the way to the garrison.

Every step reverberated in his jaw. Felt like the sharp sticky-outy bit he had felt was poking right into the red gums Constance had seen.

At the garrison, Athos and Aramis were already sparring, Athos with his usual cool efficiency, but Aramis chattering constantly and dancing around him with a flourish. Porthos waved at them from where he was sat with his breakfast.

“He’ll talk our ears off, the way he’s going. Really hoping Athos will manage to knock the wind out of him soon.” Porthos’ grin belied his fondness.

D’Artagnan sat down next to him and put his elbows on the table to cradle his face in his hands.

“Apple?” Porthos offered. “Nice and crunchy.”

D’Artagnan groaned.

“Aramis, stop fooling around,” Constance shouted. “You need to look at d’Artagnan.”

Athos spun around first, sheathing his blade. “Is he injured?”

Aramis hopped down from the water trough he’d been balancing on and sashayed over. “I see, you forfeit the fight, Athos,” he said. “I’ll start the day off with a win then.”

As soon as he reached the table, he became serious. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” d’Artagnan mumbled. He really didn’t need them all to make a fuss.

“He’s got a toothache,” Constance supplied. “I had a look and it’s all…” She waved her hand vaguely. “You should check on it.”

“Oh please, Madame,” Aramis said. “I’m not some common tooth puller. He can go to the barber for that.”

“I’m fine.” D’Artagnan clutched his cheek. He he did not want to be on the receiving end of such torture.

He could tell they didn’t believe him. Didn’t help that he didn’t believe himself. Constance’s hands on his shoulders kept him from getting up.

“Now, Aramis,” she said. D’Artagnan could hear the glare in her voice.

“I’ll fetch your kit.” Porthos was already on his way to Aramis’ room.

“And my looking glass,” Aramis shouted after him.

“Narcissist,” Constance hissed. “You can’t be without that thing for one minute.”

She had a point. Whichever mistress had given Aramis that little mirror had not just been incredibly rich, but also very, very stupid to feed his obsession with his own good looks.

“It’s not for me.” Aramis smiled solicitously. “It’s for d’Artagnan.”

Constance snorted. “I doubt he really wants to see that.”

“No, but you want me to see it and somehow I doubt you want me to stick a torch into his mouth. Therefore…” He grabbed the glass from Porthos and snapped open its delicate metal case.

D’Artagnan squeezed his eyes tightly shut, suddenly blinded.

“Good idea,” Athos said, which was high praise coming from him.

D’Artagnan cautiously opened one eye and found Aramis smirking as he angled the mirror to blind Porthos with the gathered light of the sun.

“Aramis…” Constance huffed.

“Yes, Madame.” Aramis gave her a mock bow, then tapped d’Artagnan’s chin. “Open wide.”

D’Artagnan did, or thought he did, but Aramis yanked his jaw down further, making him groan in pain.

“Oh shush, you,” Aramis said. “I need to actually see something in there.”

D’Artagnan looked up at the sky. It was too awkward to have Aramis bend over him and examine his teeth. He really hoped his breath didn’t still stink of the onions in last night’s soup.

There were some low murmurs as Aramis asked Porthos to hand him one of his instruments and then something cold and hard prodded at d’Artagnan’s gums.

“Oh glorious Apollonia,” Aramis said.

“Glorious who?” Porthos asked.

“Apollonia, patron saint of those suffering from toothache.”

Porthos snorted. “There’s a patron saint for that?”

“There’s a patron saint for every person and every circumstance they might find themselves in.” Aramis hummed thoughtfully and prodded some more.

“How do you even become the patron saint of toothaches?” Porthos asked.

Aramis sighed. “By being a martyr of the faith and having all of your teeth pulled out.”

D’Artagnan did not squeal. The sound had to have come from somewhere else. He did however jerk back and snap his mouth very firmly shut.

“I’m not doing that.”

Aramis patted his shoulder. “I doubt you’d qualify for sainthood for more reasons than just having all your teeth. But we do have a bit of a situation on our hands here.”

Athos stepped up to stand next to d’Artagnan. “That serious?”

“Well…” Aramis sat down heavily and rubbed his forehead. “We’ve known for some time, of course, but… well, this just confirms…”

“But… it’s just a toothache.” Constance sounded very concerned. At least that was a good thing.

“It’s a bit more than that.” Aramis beckoned for them all to sit down.

Maybe he had been shot after all. Maybe the sticky-outy bit was a bullet lodged in his jaw and now it was festering and eating away at his bones and he’d die an agonising death. D’Artagnan looked at Constance. How much would it hurt to kiss her one last time?

“Gentlemen… Constance…” Aramis nodded to them. “We’ve known all along that d’Artagnan is the youngest of us by some years. However, what we didn’t know so far is…”

_… that he will also be the first to die,_ d’Artagnan’s mind supplied when Aramis paused.

“… just how young he really is.”

Now that was odd. They all knew exactly how old he was. They’d just celebrated his birthday some weeks ago.

“What do you mean?” Constance asked.

“Congratulations, Constance.” Aramis cackled. “You’ve got a baby on your hands. A teething baby.”

“I’m not—”

“Teething.” Aramis pointed to his cheek. “Two teeth. Top and bottom. Just breaking through.”

“So I’m not dying?” Teeth. Not a bullet. Just teeth. Just two pesky, painful teeth. D’Artagnan sighed out and gently massaged his aching face.

Aramis sputtered with laughter. “No, baby boy.”

Porthos was grinning broadly as he patted d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Lots of things round here will kill you, but teeth aren’t one of them. “

D’Artagnan grimaced before he could stop himself, then groaned when one of those accursed teeth dug into something it shouldn’t.

Even Athos’ mouth twitched upwards. It was humiliating.

“Adding some wisdom won’t do you any harm,” Athos said.

Porthos guffawed. “Good thing there’s two of them wisdom teeth then, else they’d be mighty lonely in that head of his.”

“Well, you know he doesn’t do his thinking with—”

“Really?” Constance’s voice was sharp. “What sort of pathetic friends are you? And you!” She rounded on Aramis. “You call yourself a medic?”

Aramis shrugged. “A pretty good one, I’d say.”

“Watch it,” Constance hissed. “Or I’ll make your face hurt as well.”

Wouldn’t be the first time, but man, was it wonderful. D’Artagnan looked over his shoulder at her. She was magnificent when she was angry. She was always magnificent. But when she was angry on his behalf…

Aramis seemed to agree if his delighted grin was anything to go by.

Athos had obviously spotted that as well. “Aramis,” he growled. “He does seem to be in pain.”

Which d’Artagnan would have liked to deny, but also… well…

Aramis jumped to his feet. “Can’t have one minute of fun with you all. I’m getting there, honestly…”

He rummaged around in his medical bag. With a triumphant shout, he withdrew a small glass bottle. “Clove oil. That’ll set you right.”

He cut a small piece off a bandage and rolled it up tightly, then carefully dripped the oil onto it. “There,” he said, holding it out to d’Artagnan. “Bite down on that until the bells strike the hour.”

The smell was strong and spicy, but not unpleasant. The taste however… it was like biting into gunpowder.

“Keep it in,” Aramis said. “It’ll help, I promise.”

“Ish odd,” d’Artagnan said around the linen in his mouth. “Magsh my mouff warm.”

“That’s exactly what we’re after. Give it a few moments and you won’t feel a thing.”

They all stared at him as if they expected him to burst into flame, or at the very least perform some sort of saintly miracle. He just sat there and tried to feel anything other than the slight burn. Fortunately, it didn’t take too long.

“Tinglesh,” he said. “Ish all gone fushy.”

Aramis beamed at him. “Wonderful. Keep it in for a bit and we can do it again later. Oh and salt! If I can talk Serge into giving me some salt…”

“Salt?” Porthos asked. “Bit expensive for treating achy teeth, isn’t it?”

“Nothing too expensive for our baby boy,” Aramis declared.

“I’m not—” d’Artagnan tried to protest, but Aramis cut him off.

“Shush. You keep that clove oil where it needs to be. Like I said, nothing we won’t do for your dear baby boy.”

“How would salt help?” Constance asked.

“A saltwater rinse cleans the infected area and soothes the flesh,” Aramis said. “It’s very effective.”

“How much do you need?”

“A teaspoon or two.”

Constance smoothed her skirts. “Right, then. I’m sure I’ve got a little to spare in my kitchen.”

She walked straight out of the garrison, presumably back to her kitchen.

Porthos whistled between his teeth. “Someone really likes her baby boy…”

D’Artagnan felt warmth rise in his face that had nothing to do with the clove oil.


End file.
